


My Brain Hates Me

by VeryLateTrash



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mike is a ray of sunshine, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, self hatred, tumblr ask
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 08:41:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13520646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryLateTrash/pseuds/VeryLateTrash
Summary: Stanley Uris has been dealing with his own mental health for too long. He starts to drift from his friends once his secret comes out. He doesn't want them to get hurt, but it kills his self esteem more. He loses hope and suicide becomes too bright of an option, though it'll never be as bright as Mike Hanlon.





	My Brain Hates Me

**Author's Note:**

> An anonymous person on Tumblr requested this and I was all too happy to deliver. It really helped me vent some of the things I've been dealing with. It might be a but sloppy because of all the emotions I tried to convey. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

I guess I was never exactly a normal kid. I was diagnosed with OCD when I was younger. It started out small; when I got dirty, I immediately took a shower and it was better. But, as I grew older, the showers grew longer. I just hated being unclean.  
The first time my mother genuinely thought I might need therapy was when I was 13. It wasn't my fault, okay? I'd just gotten back from a nightmare. I'd seen things that no other kid should-or hopefully would-ever have to see. I looked into lights that I couldn't explain-maybe because the memories like water were dripping down me and being flushed down into the drains. That was perfectly fine by me.  
But the stench, the god awful stench remained. Maybe that was what caused me to be so revolted. So scared, even. The stench and the slime. IT's slimy hands were still on me, holding me and forcing me away from our circle. IT's breath was on me as yellowed, horrible smelling teeth were about to sink into me. Leave their ugliness on me.  
I'd turned the water up too high, but I was too disgusted to really feel it until the burning became too much. According to my mother, I'd spent at least a solid half an hour in that shower. My body had been bright red. I looked at the mirror and saw the burning red skin as blood. My brain was pounding. All logic-all that I prided myself in-was gone.  
It was hard to explain all that I felt to the therapist my mom hired to "see what was wrong with me". In hindsight, I must've seemed like a real psychopath to him. I was talking-no, not talking; talking is too normal, I'm not normal-I was rambling to her about this and that. The clown was never mentioned, but I did tell her about the blood in Beverly's bathroom. How when I saw it, my stomach clenched and I felt like I couldn't breathe.  
The slimy hands were on me again, wrapping around my throat, or maybe even going straight to the source and gripping my lungs with full force and an ugly smile. So ugly.  
My throat actually felt like it was constricting, closing up on me so that I felt like I was underwater. Dying. I felt like I was dying-or maybe it was actually happening.  
I was given some medicine to help with what my therapist said was definitely an anxiety disorder and some tips she gave me to lessen my obsessions.  
My father had thought I was ridiculous for going to therapy. He said I was wasting my time. That it doesn't work, anyway.  
Maybe I agreed with him on that.  
I mean, look where I am now.  
As I got out of middle school and finally entered high school, I felt my anxiety begin to take more of a hold on me. Bill began to be a stronger person after what they'd been through. He'd forgotten so quickly, almost as quickly as Eddie and Ben. What happened to Georgie was, according to Bill, a mistake. He was still convinced it was his fault, but it wasn't a murder.  
I knew otherwise. My grip on that was what was holding me down. I knew that I wasn't completely insane for hating the drainpipes. I knew I wasn't nuts for cringing at the sight of a nosebleed-or any type of blood for that matter.  
My friends had no clue what I was talking about. Ben forgot almost everything. And he was happy. Beverly forgot, and moved in with a family friend that treated her well. She was happy. Eddie forgot and he went back to being happy with his mother. And with Richie, who guess what? Had forgotten.  
That's what hurt the most. Richie, my best friend since before I could remember, had no clue why I was so nervous and jittery all the time.  
I tried to explain one time why I was losing my breath when he'd brought a balloon for my birthday. He'd looked at me like I was insane. My heart broke.  
I felt so alone. All of my friends at school had no idea how to help me. Not only that, but they were getting older. Getting boyfriends and girlfriends and I was just the crazy kid who's friends didn't know how to talk to anymore.  
I wasn't crazy. I'm still not crazy. I know what happened and for some reason, they couldn't remember. Because they didn't see those lights. Those lights were embedded into my brain.  
It-or maybe IT?-was getting to me. I started by losing sleep. I'd stay up until two am thinking of all the things that could happen to me as I slept, and when I finally did start sleeping, my dreams were filled with darkness. My friends would leave me over and over, calling me insane and unbearable. My parents would send me to a shrink that'd feast on my fear. My skin would finally peel all the way off after all the anxious picking I'd done to it.  
Then I'd wake up at six am to my mother calling at me to get dressed and have some breakfast before school, which I would do with shaking, bitten hands.  
I hated the condition of my hands. The nails were bitten evenly to the nub. Evenly because I'd hate them more if they were in disarray. Every time I'd see something, instead of calling out to all the people who know thought me insane, I'd bite at my hands to get out the pain deep in my core.  
I hated it. I hated IT.  
I think, laying alone, at the side of my bed after a particularly bad nightmare, staring at my hands, that that was the first time I'd decided I really wanted to die.  
It wasn't one of those passing thoughts. Or one of those phrases you toss around after getting a bad grade on a test. No, it was genuine. I wanted to die.  
I couldn't feel any emotions anymore anyway. All I felt, in that moment, was a numbness and a strong feeling of emptiness. I wanted to die.  
(Standing in a field just outside the sewer we'd just exited-)  
My head started pounding after I first thought it. It was as if the thought wanted out of my head. It was pushing, clawing its way out of my mouth. It'd use a saw if it had to, but it was going to be said.  
(-I watch, tongue licking the sides of my mouth to alleviate the dryness, as my friends take turns with the piece of glass I'd broken for them. They were cutting the palms of their hands, about to seal a bond-)  
I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. I put my hands, one with a scar that almost was placed somewhere else, over my ears, as if that would cause the thought to stop. Stop yelling at me. You can't get out of my brain because if you do, then you're real. I don't want you to be real.  
(-Richie handed me the piece of glass, and I bit my lip. My hands were shaking. My eyes were puffy from tears fresh and old. Mike was on my other side, looking at me, and I couldn't let them down. Not these two. The glass was held firmly by me but my hand holding it wasn't going toward my other palm. It was manifesting the thought that I hadn't recognized as suicidal. The glass was on my wrist for a half a second before I harshly cut my palm, eyes stinging with even more tears-)  
I was about to scream. I didn't want to live, but I didn't want to die. Not exactly. I wanted my friends to believe me. I wanted a normal life. Not just without the memories of IT, but without anxiety and without this dark cloud of seasonal depression.  
My face was twisted up in a sobbing scowl. I pressed my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them and holding them there, as if to force them to stay in place.  
I didn't trust myself. I was a mess that couldn't decide whether it wanted to live or die.  
The next day at school was one of the worst. I hadn't gotten any sleep that night. I couldn't tell my friends. Not at school, at least. We all have different classes now, especially with all of my AP classes. It makes it so much harder to see them, to have a source of breath.  
They knew how much I was suffering, but I knew that they had no idea how to help me. I didn't want to burden them. After all they'd already done for me. And Richie, my best friend, I know how much he already goes through with his own insecurities. I don't want to lay more on him than.  
There was Mike, who didn't go to public school, but I was nervous about being seen with him too much. I'd been talking with Richie one day. It was suppose to be a private conversation, but with this town, nothing stays private.  
I was fiddling with my hands too much, probably. That's what gave Patrick Hockstetter his first impression that we were discussing something serious.  
I had been in the middle of a sentence, one that would make me even more of a target. "-I just, I'm really confused, man. There's this boy that I like, and-"  
That was all he'd gotten out before Patrick stopped by where they were sitting and kneeled down beside them. He'd gotten a hold of his yamaka, tossing it over his back, "I knew that only a flamer would wear a gay hat like that."  
My heart had pounded so loud that I was sure Patrick could hear it.  
The rumor spread like wildfire. Maybe that's why I started to avoid being seen with Mike. I became more standoffish around Bill and Richie. ...I guess that was my fault as much as it was anybody's...  
High school was so much different than middle school. I had always blamed that on why I spent less time with my friends, but...I started to think that my avoiding being as close to them in public was causing it. It was so obvious.  
I hated myself so much because of the drift I caused.  
Nights became even worse. Though I went to sleep so late, I'd go to my room almost as soon as I got home from school.  
I remember...it was on one of my especially horrible days...My mom had called me downstairs, saying that one of my friends was at the door. By then, I was about sixteen, I believe, and had contemplated suicide too many times to count.  
Not the point. I put away a book that I'd been trying to lose myself in and went downstairs.  
My heart sank when I saw Mike standing the doorway, a concerned look on his face, holding his arm. He saw me and I hated the sadness that his eyes held. He knew. Of course he knew. After all the time we spent together on his farm, talking endlessly about anything and everything.  
Of course, it wasn't like that anymore. Not since I pushed him away. Pushed the whole town away from me.  
And, there was now. Standing sheepishly in the doorway of my house, unsure of whether to come in or not because my mother wasn't sure whether she trusted him, despite knowing he was my friend.  
Our eyes finally connected. He broke the tense silence, "Hi, Stan."  
I couldn't muster the energy to respond. Mike sighed, "I, uh, was wondering if you wanted to go walk around. Talk a bit. See some birds. It's been a while since I've seen you." His words and tone were light, but something Mike's eyes held seriousness.  
I nodded, "Sure, sure." With a fogged over brain, I walked toward Mike, earning a small smile from him. My mother shut the door behind us, but it felt like her eyes were still watching me as we walked away from my house and toward what seemed to be the direction of the park.  
Once we were far enough away from most people, Mike stopped under a large oak. I noticed how the light bounced around the tree's branches and made Mike's face glow... I stopped my thoughts.  
Mike's hand rested gently on the crook of my neck, in a place between my shoulder and throat. He looked at me-slightly down at me, as he was just a hair taller-and said, "Stan, what's wrong? I haven't seen you in so long and I talked to the guys and they said you haven't been hanging around them much...You don't seem ha-" Mike stopped, biting his bottom lip a bit. I knew what he meant. He was going to say I don't look happy.  
I leaned into the hand that was placed carefully, like butterfly landing with caution on a leaf that was about to fall. I couldn't meet his gaze, warm eyes trying desperately to know what was wrong with me. *I'm* what's wrong with me, okay?  
I couldn't respond directly, but rather asked, "What about the others? Why did they send you to talk to me?" I didn't mean to sound harsh or bitter or whatever other thing Mike might've thought.  
His hand stayed on my neck, and I felt his other hand bump my own. He took my hand in his, a loose hold, really.  
His thumb was rubbing over my knuckles and he said, quietly, "Stan, look at me, what's wrong?"  
That's when the dam that was holding back all of my emotions broke open and let loose the ocean of shit that I've been harboring. I couldn't hold back, squeezing his hand and throwing my free arm around his neck, I told him everything, "My parents-they put me in therapy, and-and, I remember things, Mike. So many things. They all think I'm insane. I-...There-There's rumors at the school that I'm-I-" my mouth couldn't spit out the words, "That I like you, and holy shit, Mike!" My voice cracked on 'shit', but I continued, "I can't be around Richie or Bill or Beverly and especially not you because of all the things I see when I see them. And I can't be seen with you, Mike! They're all going to know, and I can't deal with that because then it'd be hurting you and, Mike, you don't need to be targeted anymore. I mean, Henry and them hate you more than anyone and this would add on to it. I just can't, Mike! I have all-all these thoughts and all this pressure building up and I don't want to deal with it anymore! I...I want to die, Mike. The other day, I-I was staring at my wrists and I remembered a time where I wanted to just let them bleed out and I'd die. I can't deal with this. I..." I trailed off, not knowing what else to say.  
Mike's hand that was on my neck moved up, pressed against my cheek. He moved back a bit, and brought my hand that was holding his up, pressing his lips against it. He dropped our hands then to hug me closer, not saying a word.  
I choked out a sob, unable to form any more words; all I wanted to say was already out there. I feared that I was holding him so tight that I was hurting him, but if that were true, then it went unmentioned.  
Mike just held me, then he leaned back a bit more, pressing his forehead against mine, "I'm here for you, Stan. We all are. It's good you're going to therapy for this, even if it does make you feel uncomfortable, which I'm sure it does." Mike's hand went up to my hair, playing with the curls just enough that it was relaxing. "And, about that other thing bothering you...Stan, does it really matter if other people know you happen to like a boy? It doesn't change any of our opinions of you, dude."  
My free hand was a loose, anxious fist against Mike's back. "I-I just...As I said, I don't want them to hurt you more. I..." I sighed.  
He gave me a soft smile. I considered how easy it would have been for someone to see us like that. For Bowers' gang to see us like that. But, for some reason, I didn't care. My anxiety was near gone at that moment.  
Mike's hand squeezing my own, a hand in my hair and my hand unclenching to be flat against his back. I smiled, somewhat relishing in the fact that it was stiff after all the frowning I'd been doing recently; maybe I'd get better after this. Maybe my therapist would finally see progress in me. Maybe I could get back to my studies. And my friends. And Mike.  
Or, maybe only those last couple of things, but that'd be just as fine. Standing in the sun, as the light seemed to drown out all of the little clawmarks I'd made on myself in desperate times, I actually felt better.  
Mike's face split into a smile at seeing my own, "That's more what I'm talking about! Stan, promise me something."  
I raised up my brows a bit in response.  
He said, "Whenever you're feeling like you don't want to live, or anything of the sort, please, talk to me. Come over to the farm or call our home phone, and just talk to me," Mike backed his phrase up a bit,"O-Or, at least talk to someone. Richie would work."  
I nodded, "I'll try."  
Mike could see that's the best response he'd get, and hugged me once more, before saying, "You should get home. I have to help my parents with the animals, and stuff."  
We walked back, still attached at the hands. As I got closer to home, I started feeling more of my insecurities come back. One of the thoughts that crossed my mind was simply that I'm not worth all the fuss Mike had been through to calm me down enough just to stay alive.  
I believed that one with my whole heart, up until the very day I died, even after I'd forgotten who Mike was for so long. I wasn't worth all that he, Richie, and all of my other friends did for me.  
Mike, when we were just a few yards away from my house, gently dropped my hand and pressed a light kiss to my cheek-one that left its mark there for years-and said, as if to reassure me from my own thoughts, "Just know that you're always worth it, Stan. Always."  
He gave me a wave, and I watched him go back toward where he farm was. It hadn't occurred to me that he'd walked all the way here and has to walk all the way back.  
I sighed, smiling despite the awful thoughts circling around in my brain. Then, I went back inside, facing the loneliness of my bedroom once more. And somehow, with Mike's reassurances, the darkness felt a bit less heavy.


End file.
